


Pythons and Vipers

by CanineR7A7



Category: Kim Possible (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Don't worry, Drug Use, Insomnia, Mutants, Nightmares, OC-centric, Other, POV First Person, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violence, none of the major characters die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanineR7A7/pseuds/CanineR7A7
Summary: Life is hard, and that’s not counting trouble with the law, genetic enhancements, a past that won’t let go, or assassins baying for your blood.





	1. Chapter 1

The gun is cold in my hand, it’s an older model but every part is brand new, I’m not nostalgic enough to risk it failing when I need it. The facility I stand in is old, some old U.S missile bunker that had become forgotten once its stock had depleted. The rubber soles of my boots thud quietly against the dusty concrete, I keep the gun raised though my finger doesn’t rest over the trigger – there are only three bullets left, I won’t waste them on whatever guards are here.

“If there even is any.” Finishing my thoughts out loud is a habit I have yet to break; it wasn’t as bad when she was with me. I clench my eyes shut; I won’t think about her here, I can’t think about her here. Usually I would be ashamed by that moment of weakness, but I knew there was no one around to see it; five levels up and I had yet to encounter a single guard, either this was the most elaborate trap I’d encountered or my target didn’t feel like putting up a fight, he knew I was here, he had too. I neared the final stairwell, this one was smaller than the others, not built to support the same weight as the others, a flimsy measure to protect whatever was kept behind the single door at the top. Probably nothing valuable if the state of the facility was anything to go by, certainly nothing that couldn’t have been damaged by the liquid I can hear dripping from a nearby pipe. I climb the stairs slowly, breath stuttering at every creak; my fear is irrational, I know I will survive a fall from this height, but in a way, that only makes things worse. I enter the passcode into the scratched keypad, my target had already informed me that it had been changed, _0-0-0-0_ , the door opened and I took a moment to observe the room. The faded red carpet and dark wood panelling gave the room a hotel penthouse vibe, not what I expected from an old military installation, though I’d long since learned not to put much faith in my expectations.

“You came then.” It was a statement not a question, my gaze shifted from the covered picture frames to the man near the window. The room was dark and the light streaming through the window only succeeded in making his silhouette appear eerie, like a man awaiting his own execution. I take my time walking over to him, my gun aimed at his head the whole time. I stop when I’m close enough to see his face, but far enough that he can’t see mine. He looks too much like an old man for his age; grey hair hanging limp in wiry strands, eyes sunken into their sockets, hollow cheeks and ashy skin, this shell isn’t the man who recruited me.

“I’ve never been one to deny a summons.” My tone carries more exhaustion than I intended, never in a million years did I expect to be pointing a gun at someone I once called friend; this is the fourth time, it shouldn’t affect me this much anymore, but it does. He sighs as he tilts his head towards me, eyes finding mine though I know he can’t see them.

“I didn’t expect you this early.” He likely thought I’d spend longer thinking about his request, long enough for him to change his mind and vanish _again_. My grip tightened around the shiny metal, he urge to put a bullet through his skull was there, but I needed to hear him out, needed to know why he wanted to see someone who would likely leave him dead.

“I’ve never been one for waiting around either.” That’s a lie and we both know it, he’d taught me a lot of what I knew, he knew exactly what kind of person I was. I only hope I’ve changed enough since then.

“Take the glasses off, please.” His voice was barely a whisper, that alone stopped me from retorting. He always sounded sure of himself; I could count on one hand the amount of times I’d ever heard him sound so defeated. I pull the sunglasses off, not that it makes much of a difference, though it probably does to him. I make sure he hears me fold them up and pocket them, his expression morphs into one of sadness. Some of the anger I had felt dissipates, I know he didn’t intend for this to happen, at least, not the way it did.

“Start talking old man.” I meant for it to be an order, but we both know it isn’t. Even after everything he’s done I can’t help but see the man who was like a father to me and some urge rises to hug him, to protect him from the monster he was partially responsible for me becoming, it’s a foolish thought, one that I’m quick to stamp out.

“I don’t think there’s anything else I can say, nothing that will relieve the guilt and certainly nothing that will erase what happened to you.” I grind my teeth in frustration, so he asks for me to come but then doesn’t tell me why? I know he isn’t the kind of man to risk so much for a stroll down memory lane so there must be a reason, and he feels guilty? About what happened to me? ‘ _What about those other kids you hurt?_ ’ I want to ask, ‘ _what about her?_ ’ but I know not to ask either.

“That it? You waste both of our times and for what? Nothing will ever make me come back, certainly not you feeling guilty for hurting _us_ in ways others only dream about.” He actually flinches at that, if we were having this discussion months, even days earlier I probably would have felt guilty for lashing out. But now? That was out of the question. His hand reaches into his blazer pocket, I silently move my finger over the trigger, I don’t think he’d attempt to shoot me but I can’t be too careful. He doesn’t pull out a gun, instead he holds a USB drive, bland in color, and innocent enough from an outsider’s perspective.

“Here.” His hand trembles as he extends his arm towards me, if he notices mine does the same as I reach out and grab it he doesn’t say anything. I eye the device with apprehension, part of my wants to destroy it in front of him, to sever his sorry excuse for an olive branch, but my natural curiosity wins out. I pocket the device carefully and raise a brow in confusion.

“My last gift to you.” I close my eyes when I feel a burning sensation, I won’t cry now, I can’t cry now. When I open my eyes I realize he’s facing me, his own eyes glistening as he slowly grabs my wrist and pressed my own gun against his forehead. I try to press down on the trigger, but my finger won’t budge, each attempt only worsens the lump I feel forming in my throat. I can’t do it, there are a grand total of two people I could never bring myself to kill, and this broken shell is one of them. I pull my arm back and silently holster the pistol. I’m halfway to the door when I hear him speak.

“I thought you wanted to kill me.” I keep my back facing him, not needing to look to know he is assessing me. The thought doesn’t irk me as much as it used to.

“You gave me a home once, and regardless of how badly it turned out, I will always remember that.” He doesn’t say anything else; I don’t wait for him too. I know I haven’t spared him, there are plenty of people out there who want him dead, I know this will be the last time I see him in person. Soon, Malcolm Genovah will become yet another face in my nightmares, another person I failed. I slip my sunglasses back on, a flimsy mask against whoever could be lurking in the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

I stare at my reflection as the sink fills with water, not bothering to wipe away the condensation that slowly covers the already filthy mirror. The face that stares back at me is foreign, not the one I remember; chiselled jaw, pale skin, and deep bruises beneath her eyes. The eyes weren’t human, hadn’t been for a long time, fiery yellow in color, pupils forming narrow slits. Snake eyes, a result of what they did to me; the bathroom light reflected off the water, the eyes appeared to glow. It was an unsettling image, one of the reasons I wore the glasses.

“At least it didn’t happen to her.” It had become my mantra over the past few years; I had come close to ending it all more times than I cared to admit, but the knowledge that she wasn’t yet safe from them was enough to keep me going. The water stops rising at the same time as heavy thuds slam against the front door, my head snaps in that direction, knuckles turning white as I grip the porcelain. The snake eyes give me some form of night vision, though heat map is probably a more accurate term; there are times when it’s useful, such as now when I can clearly see there is only one person without even opening the door, there are other times when I wish I didn’t have it, I could’ve done without knowing what my neighbours do at 4am. Realising what’s going on, I slowly force myself to let go of the sink and head over to open the door for my guest, picking up a battered envelope and sliding on my glasses on the way.

“Finally. Any longer and I would’ve called someone in to break your door missy.” The man grumbles, clearly hung-over. I roll my eyes as I press the envelope into his hands, not bothering to say anything as I close the door. The apartment’s cheaper than most, likely because no one really stays long enough for a higher price to benefit him; the only reason I still “live” here is because this street is generally ignored by the authorities, that and the landlord doesn’t seem to care whether he’s paid with honest cash or blood money – that suits me just fine. She wouldn’t approve, that much I know, I can easily picture her look of disapproval if she were to find out how I live now, I force the thought from my mind, there’ll be time for that later.

“There’ll be time later.” Repeating the thought out loud makes it feel real, if it feels real I can believe it. I trudge back to the bathroom; bathroom’s probably the wrong word, there is no bath and I’d learned not to use the shower, but I don’t know what else to call it. The mirror is completely covered now, something that I’m thankful for. I bend over the sink and begin tipping handfuls of water on my head, I’m not actually bathing now but I’ve found this helps with the nightmares. Once the water’s gone cold I straighten my back and towel dry my hair as best as I can. I’d dyed it indigo a while back but the colour was more lavender now, it didn’t look too bad so I hadn’t bothered re-dying it. It was an odd thing to think about, at least for me, I generally didn’t think about my appearance beyond the snake eyes. I dumped the towel back on the counter and headed to the beat up old couch in the front room; there was a bed, but if the springs poking out of it weren’t enough to prevent me using it, the squelching sound it made every time I moved it was. There was a small box next to the couch, I opened it and carefully took one of the pills out. I wasn’t entirely sure what they were, just that I could get them from the homeless guy a few streets over for a small price, maybe a free meal as well if I’m feeling particularly generous. I swallowed it dry and lay on my front, one arm dangling off the edge in case I needed to grab the knife hidden beneath the couch. I allowed my eyes to drift shut as the familiar fogginess settled over me, I’d plan my next move tomorrow.


End file.
